The Anxious Poet

wine hair tickling my nose
chapstick sweet
eyes dry—did I even blink?
streets smell like spirits & dior & someone suggesting peaches and strawberries as if that were new at bristol
rain frets in the trees
birds click their little instruments
okay, breathe
fresh-book sting up the sinuses
my eyes bounce—newton’s cradle—stop it
ring, turn
palm, clammy on the leather strap
shoulders back—are you sure?—posters say welcome as if they know me
ghosts linger with deadlines
i am ant-small in the moving colony & somehow lit up like an emergency arrow
jumper big enough to hide the week
headphones staging weather i can embrace
the brain projector whirs—don’t touch it, it breaks—fine, let it run
lone coffee, no table wants me—maybe the window ledge will
do not make eye contact
do not volunteer
will this seminar be kind or sharp today?
choose
then a face I know
my name spoken right
the room loosens its jaw a little
someone mentions a topic & my chest clicks into place—see, you’re not a rumor
lucky, i tell myself, like rubbing a coin
lecture breathes in long sentences & i can climb them, careful, rung by rung
home at last
lamp on
space tidied the way a thought gets tidied
the arrow over my head dims to a pilot light
nobody cured anything
but i lay the book where morning will find it
and whisper tomorrow, out loud, like a small agreement.